


Negotiating Language

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, I'm occasionally a romantic dumb, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2598521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the two of them, it is a complicated matter.<br/>Dean can’t say it; has never been able to say it, not since his mother burned on a ceiling, when he was still soft and wide-eyed and wanted to hug the whole world.<br/>Castiel, on the other hand, can’t say it enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Negotiating Language

Between the two of them, it is a complicated matter.

Not the thing that binds them together, though that is complicated too; but it is self-evident, undeniable, and it has never needed to be spoken. Everyone could see it, Heaven and Hell similarly baffled at the spectacle, yet very much aware that where Dean went, Castiel would follow; that when Castiel left, Dean would wait; and that they would always, invariably, choose one another.

The thing that binds them together is as strong as the roots of the world, and neither of them has tried to deny it in a long time. Both of them tired of fighting it, preferring to fight by each other’s side instead. It was only a matter of time, really, before they fell into each other’s bodies.

And that is where it gets tricky: for lovers often come to need words of love, even when their bodies are eloquent.

Dean can’t say it; has never been able to say it, not since his mother burned on a ceiling, when he was still soft and wide-eyed and wanted to hug the whole world. The words ‘I love you’ are a haunting memory, one he’s tried to drown in liquor too many times. As the soft boy grew into a man, he tried to build a thicker skin, leather jacket as his armor, a shield of defiant sarcasm glimmering shallow in the sun. That same shield made it impossible for him to get the words out again, except in muted whispers, except in broken syllables. This is the life of a hunter, and this is Dean’s life: open a chink in the armor and you’re exposed, you’re wounded, you’re dead.

Castiel, on the other hand, can’t say it enough. Enochian has no words for love. Angels aren’t supposed to love anyone but God, and the love they have for their Maker needs no words: it is inscribed in the particles of their being. Yet the human language all but _brims_ with words of love. The combinations are endless, and endlessly fascinating.

Castiel, like all angels, was created in the glory of the heavenly choirs, crafted out of starlight and energy to sing and praise: so he’s more than happy, now, to craft praise for Dean. It fills a hole in the core of his being that had been screaming, empty, ever since his Father left. If Dean is silent when it comes to love, then Castiel will sing hymns against the skin of his neck; if Dean is mute, Castiel will murmur _hosannas_ into his hair, and recite odes of worship along his spine.

There is a sort of dance between them, and it goes something like this.

Dean will kiss the words he cannot say into the hollow of Castiel’s throat. “I love you,” Castiel will gasp, “I have never loved anyone but you, always you, only you‒” and Dean will cut him off with mouth and teeth and tongue, unable to bear what he cannot give back.

Or Castiel will trace the words onto Dean’s belly with careful fingers, the letters slanted and firm, in a thousand and one languages. “I know what you’re doing,” Dean will say, warningly, and Castiel will just smile. “I bet you think you’re really smart,” Dean will grouse, pretending not to smile back. “I _am_ really smart,” Castiel replies, and traces the word _dilectus meus_ across his belly button.

Or, again, Dean will try to say it, because he _wants_ to, wants it with a burning intensity that consumes his lungs and makes it all but impossible to get the words out. “Cas,” he starts, gulping down oxygen as their bodies grind into each other. “Cas, I‒” he chokes on an exhale, the walls around his heart trembling as if by earthquake. There’s still a knot of fear in his stomach, that old fear that _people always leave_ , so ingrained it’s hard to shake off even with Castiel around him, above him, inside him.

“I know, Dean,” Castiel says, because he does know, and there’s no reproach in his voice, only understanding. Humans lie, and avoid conversations, and it doesn’t make this one human any less his. Besides, Castiel doesn’t need to hear the words, not like Dean does (and he _does,_ soaking them up to the marrow of his bones despite all of his protests, etching them into his memory forever and ever). He was not made to want things for himself, like humans are; and everything he does want, he already has.

“You are everything,” he’ll murmur to Dean in the darkened room, after they’ve made love (for that’s what it is, and neither of them has ever had to put up the token argument for ‘sex’ and ‘fucking’ and ‘doin’it’ ), the sheets slowly cooling between them. And Dean will be amazed, as he always is, that Castiel says these things ‒ these ridiculous, sappy, mindblowing things ‒ without the slightest embarrassment or bashfulness, eye contact steady and relentless and not a hint of blushing. They don’t sound so ridiculous and sappy then, because Castiel has no idea they should be, and he treats them with the seriousness of newly minted gospel.

“You know you don’t have to say all this stuff, right?” Dean whispers, and he doesn’t know what would be worse: for Cas to keep waxing poetic about him, making Dean hurt with the guilty weight of the words he cannot say, or for Cas to actually _stop._

“I know. I want to.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me feel good to say it.” Castiel draws closer. “Because it is true and right. And because language…” A shadow passes over his face, and Dean pulls him in tighter, sharing body heat and comfort.

“What’s up?” he asks into Castiel’s hair, hand finding Cas’s between them.

“My language has no words of love.” It’s a quiet confession, and filled with regret. “If it did, I would never stop using them.” Castiel looks up, eyes intent and burning with conviction. “As it is, I must make do with every other language in the world. But words… words are important. There’s power in them. I enjoy speaking them. In a way… it creates reality anew.”

Dean falters and frowns, guilt resurfacing from its shallow grave.

“Cas, you know I‒ even if I don’t say it a lot‒ you gotta know that I…”

“Dean. Stop. This isn’t about you. It never was. I lack for nothing.”

“But still, I‒” Dean starts, frustration coloring his voice. It’s an abortive sentence, and Castiel doesn’t push, just smiles, an ancient and loving smile, one that just about unveils the millennial wisdom in his eyes.

“You owe me nothing, Dean. Nothing. And I… owe you everything. All of the words of love in the world would have meant nothing to me if I hadn’t met you.”

Dean has never been more grateful for the cover of darkness, because his cheeks feel like they’re on fire against the cool pillowcase. But Cas - the son of a bitch - is relentless.

“You never have to worry about saying the words, with me, Dean. I’ve seen your soul, literally. And I know your heart.” A hesitant pause. “And I know you’ve always taken me back, despite my shortcomings and mistakes and flaws. You’ve fought for me and stood with me against all odds. I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, Dean, but your actions speak volumes of their own. So leave the words to me.”

Castiel smiles down at their joint hands, and pushes his fingers through Dean’s, entwining them, before looking up again, unwavering.

“ _Your neck is like the tower of David,_ _built in rows of stone; on it hang a thousand shields, all of them shields of warriors.”_

“Cas.” Dean’s voice is choked with warning, and there are definitely _not_ tears in his eyes, but he still shivers against the sheets, and he can’t help the way one of his legs finds its way between Castiel’s, seeking warmth. Castiel’s brings their joint hands to his mouth and presses his lips to them, reverently, for a long moment, before smiling again, this time at Dean.

“ _His mouth is most sweet,_ _and he is altogether desirable. This is my beloved and this is my friend._ ”

There’s a content sort of silence thrumming around them then, broken only by soft heartbeats ‒ one steady, one hammering wild ‒ and the painful sound of Dean swallowing once, twice.

“I love you,” he says eventually, in the smallest voice Castiel’s ever heard from him, and it’s a scared and wounded thing, it’s a frightened four-year-old peeking his head out from the wreckage of his burning home.

“I know, Dean.” Castiel murmurs, and despite his earlier assurances, he can’t help the way his heart leaps inside his throat, chest tightening with joy. After all, he is, now, only human.

“God help me,” Dean whispers fervently, “but I do. I just… need you to know that. Had to say it. In case I… I don’t know when I’ll have the balls to say it again. I want to be that kind of person, I think. I just don’t know if I am.”

“It’s okay,” Castiel grins, and there’s no pretense in the affection and happiness of it. “We have a long time to find out.”

Then, and only then, does Dean finally allow himself to smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> The lines Castiel recites to Dean are from the Song of Solomon, also know as the Song of Songs. I know it's been used before by more than one writer, but sometimes things just _fit_ and there's no use in pretending otherwise (love songs and the Bible, I mean come on).  
>  Similarly, the phrasing _dilectus meus_ comes from verse 2:16 of the Latin text of the Song of Songs, _dilectus meus mihi et ego illi_ : "my beloved belongs to me, and I to him".


End file.
